Sociopath
by Rjalker
Summary: John has tried to ignore it, but his anger has been building since the moment he met Sherlock and Sophrania.


John wasn't really sure when the exact moment was that he became fed up. It had been so many small things, tiny little things that almost escaped his notice, just building and building and building up until he couldn't take it anymore.

Kaichara was perched, as still as a statue, on the back of what had become John's chair, her head bowed and her shoulders raised, as though poised to lift off at any moment. Her golden eyes were the only thing that gave away her emotions, locked with unforgiving intensity on the snow leopard curled up dozing on the floor.

As for John, he was making tea, his motions slow and deliberate, trying to reign in on the anger that had been building since he'd first met the man so that he didn't flip out entirely. Sherlock and Sophrania were going to be hard enough to talk to as it was. Shouting at them wouldn't make things easier.

But that didn't change the fact that Kaichara's talons were slowly puncturing holes into the chair's back, or that his fingers wrapped white-knuckled around the handle of the mug he'd picked up.

Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought.

John carried his mug into the living room with him, and set it down on the fireplace's mantle to cool before taking his seat, one hand automatically going up to smooth his daemon's feathers as she lowered her head to run her beak gently through his hair.

John took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Sherlock?" He held his voice low, so as not to startle his flatmate.

The snow leopard's ears flickered toward them, but nothing more. Sophrania did not lift her head to pay attention to them, and Sherlock did not even deign to react.

John cleared his throat, and shared a glance with his daemon. "Sherlock," He said, louder, "Do you have a moment?"

There came a sigh, and Sherlock turned his head to look at them, blinking his eyes as though he'd just woken from a deep sleep. "It depends." His voice was guarded, and his mouth had turned down into a frown. He could see John's tension, then.

John steeled himself, and decided to get straight to the point. Sherlock didn't have much patience for anything, and there would be no point in dancing around the subject. "You need to stop calling yourself a sociopath." He said firmly, leaning forward in his chair and interlacing his fingers together so he could stop them from trembling, "You're not, and it's...it's uncalled for."

Almost immediately, Sophrania's ears flattened, and a low growl rumbled through the air in warning.

"Oh really." Sherlock said flatly, his voice dark, his eyes glaring shard of green ice, "And what makes you say that?"

The growling continued.

But John would not be dissuaded, and Kaichara did not flinch away from meeting the snow leopard's gaze when Sophrania turned her glare upon them, still growling, low and dangerous.

"You're just not." John said, "You only say you are, so that you can scare people. Because you don't like them, because they don't like you, because of what you can do. But saying something doesn't make it true, and you know that."

It was surprisingly easy to keep his voice calm, but that might have had something to do with Sophrania turning way beneath Kaichara's steely, golden-eyed gaze, and stopping her growling.

For a few moments that threatened to stretch into minutes, Sherlock remained silent, and quiet hung over the room.

"It's okay to be angry." John said into the silence, "But don't degrade yourself just to spite the people who don't like you."

More silence, and he could see Sophrania's whiskers twitching. Sherlock was staring at him with hooded eyes, his mouth twisted slightly as though he had tasted something foul.

"You knew a sociopath, didn't you?" He observed, his voice suddenly quiet.

Kaichara tensed, and swung her head toward him."Yes," she said, voice the color of steel, "We did. And you are nothing like them. So stop calling yourself that, before I gouge your eyes out."

Sherlock silently raised one eyebrow, and contemplated John's demon with a thoughtful expression.

John could feel her anger, and what lay beneath it, and stood to take his mug he's almost forgotten from the mantle of the fireplace so that he could stop his hands from trembling with the emotions roiling inside him, before returning to his chair.

Kaichara couldn't stop herself from shaking though, and had she teeth, Joyn had no doubt they would have been bared to the last. But they had never been one for teeth, or snarling, or growling. Too many things could be given away by teeth. They were too easy to read.

But Sherlock's gaze was sharp, and his mind sharper.

His expression smoothed out, the furrow falling from his brow, the ice clearing from his eyes. His voice when he spoke, was soft. "I...apologize for bringing up bad memories." He said quietly. "I will refrain from using that word to describe myself."

Sophrania stood suddenly, and strode toward them, her movements slow, showing them that she was no longer angry. She paused just beside John's legs, below where Kaichara perched.

"I'm sorry." She said softly, bowing her head. "I...we're used to people hating us so much that..." She trailed off, and looked away.

The mug was warm in John's hands, and he gripped it tighter at the desperate sorrow he could see reflected in the snow leopard's entire body.

Kaichara, in one swift movement, dropped to the floor beside Sophrania, and gently nuzzled her beak across the other daemon's shoulder. "Don't let their hate shape you." She said firmly. "You are more than that."

Sophrania seemed startled at the words, and John sneaked a glance at Sherlock, only to see that he was facing the ceiling again, though his eyes were turned toward them.

Then he looked away, back toward the ceiling, and closed his eyes. Sophrania shook herself, as though to dislodge something that had stuck to her fur, and trotted back to the other side off he room without another word, and curled up once more at the foot of the sofa Sherlock lay on.

Kaichara flew back to her perch on the back of his chair, and ran her beak through his hair, the tension slowly draining out of her with the peaceful and relatively painless end to the confrontation.

Slowly relaxing into the chair's cushions as the anger melted away, John closed his eyes, allowing himself to focus on nothing but the warmth of the mug in his hands, and the comforting sensation of Karchara preening his hair.

Everything had gone better than he had hoped, and he sighed internally with relief.

He'd started to wonder if there's as any hope of maintaining a friendship with Sherlock, as headstrong and stubborn as he was, but now he had proved that theory wrong, and he was glad.


End file.
